the wind greets plumeria and skin just the same
piercing through with a roughness that cannot be explained
no don’t touch me,
I ache not for smudges nor tastes
that linger on
your hands are incompatible with the fire within.
There is a sanguine wonder as lavender melts
beneath the moonlight, yet my mind is a busy street
is replaced by warning bells
your eyes are thunderstorm when all I require
I find that centuries stutter at imprecise units
at mere movement in the shadows,
and latitude lines that form a grid on the Earth
how do you expect me to let you unearth me with delight.
I am primrose whose color is used to weave dreams from,
the older I become
the more aware I am of what’s forbidden
as though plucking a strawberry in the light of the morning
before it has turned scarlet,
this insatiate dance of your lips is more than I can handle.
April is a landscape shuddering at the thought of stifling
this isn’t something that I am in favour of
I am the afternoon sun, smouldering yellow
I am not the type to be teasingly opened.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Word List: Inseparable, smudge, centuries, shadows, primrose, forbidden.
Posted for Poetics @ dVerse Poets pub
And Posted for Get Listed @ Real Toads
Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United